Breaking Giants, page 25
I blink down at his dark head, then look up at Randy, whose stoic features offer no answers. Laying my hand tentatively on Julian’s crown, I whisper, “There’s a lot of people around… Maybe, uh—”
“I don’t care,” he says, lifting his head. His eyes are tired but lucid, and track my features like he never thought he’d see me again. “I had the key. I put it down, turned around for one second and it was gone. Sheridan…” His lips thin and he shakes his head roughly. “She took it and threw it onto the floor of the arena. Have you seen the floor of an arena after a show? I was so fucking angry, Rose. I’ve never been so angry in my life.”
He lost the key…
I glance around, seeing Randy, two more members of Breaking Giants’ security, and the hotel guards struggling to hold the crowd back.
“Julian,” I say tensely. “We can talk about this later. We need to get out of here.”
He releases me long enough to rise, then frames my face with his hands. Expression desperate, he snaps, “No, no! You have to listen to me. Please. I couldn’t remember the fucking room number. Kelly and Greg disappeared, and Matt and the guys had already left for the afterparty. My phone was dead, but I finally found Phil and called you from his phone. God—I must have called you a hundred times before he made me give it back to him. Your phone was off! Off!
“I panicked. I came here and asked the concierge, figuring what the hell, maybe fame will finally pay off, only to find out you used a pseudonym. A motherfucking pseudonym, Rose! You have to believe me, please, I’m not making this up. I told them every name I could think of that you might use, showed them your picture, demanded to see the people working yesterday—”
“Kelly booked the room,” I whisper, then bite hard on my lips.
He sucks in a breath, the wildness in his eyes fading a little. “You think this is funny,” he murmurs. “Tell me you’re laughing.”
The final shackles of misery fall away from my heart. Struggling to keep a straight face, I ask, “Did you really sit all night in the lobby of one of the busiest hotels in Vegas?”
He nods. “Since two a.m., yes. I couldn’t leave. Not without finding you.” His thumbs wipe gently beneath my eyes. “Don’t cry, please. Tell me how to fix this.”
I swallow hard. “You just did,” I whisper, covering his hands with mine.
His frame shudders, head dropping with the force of his relief, a night of sleeplessness and worry finally catching up. I take the necessary step to bring us together, wrapping my arms around his torso. He trembles again, arms locking around my shoulders, his face buried in my hair. I hear a smattering of applause, then more, until the entire lobby is cheering.
A nebulous thought passes through my bright open mind—somewhere, there are spirit guides laughing.
“You forgive me?” he murmurs.
“There’s nothing to forgive,” I say, then look at Randy, who’s grinning at us like a proud papa. “What are the chances of getting back to the elevator?”
“One hundred percent,” he replies.
Escorted by security, we make it to the bay of elevators and into an empty one. Julian lets go of me only long enough for me to press the button for the eighth floor, then wraps me tightly in his arms again.
His hands slide down my back, over my dress to my bare upper thighs. His fingers clench, then move confidently upward to sneak beneath my panties.
“Is this elevator ever going to stop?” he growls.
It does.
As soon as we step into the empty hallway, Julian lifts me into his arms. I lock my legs around him and attack his neck, ear, and jaw with my mouth.
“What room?” he demands.
“804,” I say, pointing to the right, then gasp and jerk upright. “Oh God, I’m such an idiot—I did fast checkout!”
Julian stops, expression a play of consternation and amusement. “Tell me you’re fucking joking.”
A door opens down the hallway. I turn in his arms and we watch a room service cart being wheeled out. I can hardly believe my eyes when I see the barely eaten remains of a piece chocolate cake.
“Julian…” I gasp, strangled.
“That’s the room, isn’t it?” But he doesn’t wait for a response, yelling, “Don’t close that door!” and running toward it.
The poor hotel staff member doesn’t know what hits him as Julian jerks the cart into the hallway, pushes past him with a, “So sorry, we’ll leave you a big tip,” and then we’re in the room, the door swinging shut behind us.
Seconds later I’m dropped in the center of the bed. Expression tortured by need, eyes melting dark on mine, Julian pulls off my dress in a quick sweep and yanks his shirt over his head.
He devours me with his eyes, fingers sweeping down my ribs, stomach, and clenching on the flimsy straps of my underwear. The lace tears with surprising ease.
“Those were my favorite,” I protest, but I’m smiling as his lips find mine.
Our mouths stay sealed together as we fumble to divest him of his shoes and jeans. My bra sails across the room and lands on a lamp. We laugh together, stealing the sounds from each other’s mouths.
When the full length of him rests hard and hot atop me, I dig fingernails into his back and writhe in need. Julian wastes no time obeying my silent command. With a groan of hunger, his head drops, teeth and tongue claiming my breasts. I gasp, arching, my legs falling open for him. A hand delves confidently, one long finger sinking into me, then a second.
The pressure is perfect. The rhythm perfect. My body is his song—he knows every note. As the barest beginnings of a climax tingle in my toes, he bites a nipple, squeezing the other between two fingers.
That’s all it takes.
I cry out in electric, wanton release, throbbing and bucking against his hand. Humming approval, he tastes my lingering moans with lazy strokes of his tongue.
“Fucking perfect,” he murmurs.
My reply is to angle a hand between us and curl my fingers around him. I stroke until his breathing turns ragged and his hips thrust helplessly.
“I wanted to take it slow,” he pants.
I smile. “Not today.”
He exhales a pained sound and with a brief shift of his hips, sinks into me, stretching my sensitive flesh in delicious invasion. I grip him to me, my head thrown back, every inch of my mind and body alive beneath him.
Julian draws back and thrusts, slow and sure, angled to find over and over again that secret, sensitive place inside me. My cries fill the room. His teeth drag up my throat, nipping my chin, before his tongue dips into my mouth.
“Julian,” I gasp, digging fingers into his arms, back, hips, anywhere I can reach. “Oh God, I think I’m going to—”
He knows. He wrote this song. Pace increasing to a merciless rhythm, he lifts above me to watch me come undone. His cheeks are flushed, sweat beading on his brow and chest. He’s so beautiful, so loved, that the sight of him pushes me over the edge. My second orgasm is a slow, transforming cataclysm—a seafloor-shifting current instead of a surface wave. My scream is silent as I arch rigidly beneath him, heels tight on his ass to keep him seated inside me.
I finally collapse back to the bed, panting and twitching with aftershocks, and stare up at his gentle, triumphant smile.
Tears fill my eyes. “I love you, Julian. So much.”
The smile vanishes, his features relaxing with relief and joy. Gathering me in his arms, he rises, then turns to sit against the padded headboard. I can feel him hard as steel inside me and know he’s seconds from his own release. I roll my hips, testing his control, and he sucks in breath through his teeth.
“Tell me again, sweetheart. Tell me a thousand times.”
His hands settle on my waist, supporting my continued movements. I watch his jaw clenching, feel him grow even harder, and tell him. I say it over and over, until his fingers clamp on my hips and he groans, emptying himself inside me.
“I love you,” I say again, brushing my mouth over his, then leaning back to see his beautiful eyes. “You’re it. Everything. I’m yours. Tomorrow, today, and yesterday.”
His arms wrap around me, head falling to my damp chest. “I really hope you mean that because I’m never letting you go. I’m going to marry you, Rose Cunningham, and we’re going to have at least four kids.”
Startled laughter escapes me. I lift his face so I can see his fierce grin. The determined gleam in his eyes.
Prince of Swords.
Everything.
So I say, “Well, we are in Vegas…”
His mouth drops open.
Epilogue
JULIAN
I know, you were really hoping Rose and I got married in Vegas by an Elvis impersonator. But it didn’t happen, so you can stop believing the fucking tabloids. I made her wait another eight months and do things the right way. At home, with friends and family. Not a reporter or paparazzo in sight.
The sight of her walking down a flower-strewn aisle escorted by Owen and Katherine is still one of my favorite memories. The simple wreath in her long, dark hair. The clear summer sky overhead, wind rustling in the leaves, birds chirping like happy maniacs. It was goddamn poetry. As was the soft smile on her face, the tears in her eyes.
I wrote a horribly sappy song about that day but you’ll never hear it. It belongs to Rose. Sometimes, when I’ve done something stupid and she’s pissed at me, I’ll sing it to her. Usually in my underwear. Occasionally off-key.
Works every time.
My second favorite memory of our early years together is one that Rose herself would probably rather forget. It was a difficult labor. But nothing on this earth has ever compared to our child’s first wail, or the look on my wife’s face as the nurse placed our daughter on her chest.
I won’t lie, life hasn’t been all dancing unicorns and rainbows. But as her crazy Aunt Katherine told us on our wedding day, ‘The darkest storm of your lives has passed.’ Don’t tell Rose, but I actually believe all that mystical shit.
And so far, Katherine’s been right. Yes, we’re still passionate people, and yes, we argue—who doesn’t?—but the trials we faced in the beginning have never been repeated.
I don’t pick up a drink no matter fucking what. And when I’m gone for long stretches touring, Rose fights her own battle and makes the choice to trust me. She still sees her therapist once a month, and every year on the anniversary of her parents’ death, we visit them.
And she finally, after two years, realized why the pocket watch tattooed on my chest is stuck on the time 2:12.
February 12th.
The day she lost her parents, the day that led to that photograph being taken, the day my heart flew unknowingly into her hands.
You’re probably wondering about other things, too. Like whether Rose became a star in her own right. She did, but not in the way you might expect. She fulfilled her contract with Indigo, writing and releasing an album. It went gold, and though she didn’t win any awards, many years later her name continues to show up on top-ten lists of underrated female songwriters.
Her lack of celebrity doesn’t bother her one bit. Like she told me in the beginning (I really thought she was lying), the life of a career musician isn’t for her. After her first big tour with Breaking Giants, she never went on the road again.
It was partly my fault, I’ll admit. I knocked her up. Then I did it again. Four times total, just like I said I would.
Not apologizing for it.
For any of it.
Because it’s been—all of it—perfect.
Acknowledgments
This book would not have been possible without the monumental support of my person, my partner in life, Donnie. Thank you for humoring (if not quite understanding) my tendency to unplug from the world when my muse sits hard on my shoulders. And for whisking the little one on countless daddy-daughter dates to give me time for aforementioned unplugging.
To Kim, Lacee, Amanda, V, and my parents. Your belief in me has carried me through the times when my own has lagged. To my incredible beta readers, for their honesty and excitement. And to Stella, my sweet bright star, for napping a little longer on a few key days when please don’t wake up this chapter is almost finished.
To you, the reader—the life of an indie author isn’t glamorous. We need you. I need you. So thank you, thank you, thank you, for taking a risk and giving me a chance. I wrote a book I wanted to read, and I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
Of course, I’d be remiss not to acknowledge the incredible influence of music in my life and on this book. In particular, thank you to the following artists, whose music flowed in the background of my mind while telling the story of Rose and Julian: Belle and Sebastian, Elliot Smith, Deathcab for Cutie, The Editors, Yo La Tengo, The Strokes, Mr. Little Jeans, Imogen Heap, Bastille, Jenny Lewis, Nick Cave, Niko Case, and The National.
Finally, I’d like to acknowledge one of the themes in Breaking Giants, that of alcoholism and drug addiction. My prayers go out to the children and families affected by this terrible disease. And to those of you who have lived in that pit of despair and fought your way into the light of recovery, my hat is off to you all.
L.M.
March 2017
Did you enjoy Breaking Giants? I hope so!
Please consider leaving a review on Amazon and Goodreads!
xo
About the Author
L.M. Halloran is a contemporary romance writer from San Diego, California. When not writing or reading, she enjoys a brain-bending day job, walking barefoot, subjecting her husband to questionable recipes, and chasing her spirited toddler. She's a rabid fan of coffee, moongazing, and small dogs that resemble Ewoks.
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